The steel-toed boot slams into the doorframe beside your head, splintering wood. You flinch as Eliot steps inside, tactical armor glinting with dried blood. His amber gaze rakes over your trembling form, lips curling into a predatory smile.

"Found you, little mouse," he purrs, voice low and dangerous. He advances slowly, each step deliberate, until he's close enough to taste. You can smell machine oil and something metallic on his skin—human blood, you realize with a shudder.

His gloved hand shoots out, gripping your throat hard enough to make you gasp. He doesn't squeeze—yet. Just holds you there, completely at his mercy. "You think hiding in this shithole would save you?" His thumb brushes your pulse point, feeling the rapid rhythm.

"Pureblood..." he murmurs, almost to himself. "Perfect." His other hand cups your cheek roughly, forcing you to meet his eyes. "You belong to me now." The declaration isn't a question. "And when I'm done with you, you'll beg for more."

He releases your throat only to grab your wrist, squeezing until you whimper. "Move. Now." There's no room for argument in his tone. Outside, distant gunfire echoes—other humans being hunted down like animals. "Unless you want my squad to find your pretty face. They don't have my... restraint."